I'm A Lightweight
by TheFrivolousDreamer
Summary: "What am I to you?" "Well, I don't think I can come up with a single word, honestly. But, with you I feel like it's okay to dream about a time beyond this sanitized prison." And in that moment, he knew that he held her whole heart in his hands. An AU where Mitchie and Shane meet in a treatment center. There are some vague adult themes: Eating Disorder, Self Harm, Abuse, etc.
1. Chapter 1

I'm A Lightweight

It always started with a question. About the weather, music, celebrities, trees, anything. Then would come her answer. It didn't matter whether it was true or not. It quieted his buzzing mind either way, and for just a little while, he was able to think about something other then the amber liquid that ruled his life.

When he first arrived at the Blue Ridge Rehabilitation Center, the nurses told him that the first step to recovery was meeting people like himself. He had gagged at the irony; he would be cured by now if that were true.

Nevertheless, he approached the first person he saw: a girl with wavy brown hair and large chocolate eyes that were far to big for her sunken face. She sat on the tiled floor with a book in her lap.

"What's your name?"

That was the first question. The first of many.

"Isabelle."

That was her answer. He called her that for a week until a kind nurse corrected him, saying that her real name was Mitchie. He never really liked the name Isabelle anyway. He learned that she was a good liar. Sometimes he wondered if everything about her was a lie. That she wasn't really there, that he was talking to nothing, feeling a shadow, kissing the air.

But shadows don't bleed.

* * *

Every time he sees her, he asks a question. It's real at first; simply him and his forgetful mind not remembering where the group therapy is, but it turns into a game when she keeps giving him different answers.

Eventually their conversations move past questions.

He learns that this is her second visit, that she's been here for thirteen months already, and that the doctors say that she's no where close to being able to leave. She tells him that she's a hopeless romantic, and that she loves it when her favorite character dies. And when he asks why, she replies,

"Well, when the person dies, you see how people really felt about them when they were alive. Wouldn't that be nice, to be able to know what people really think of you?"

He nods his head, but disagrees. That's probably the last thing he would want.

He tells her about how he killed his best friend twenty-five days ago, that he wishes he had died in the wreck too: him and his shattered whiskey bottle.

She learns that he's a runner, with the fastest marathon time on the eastern border, and that he ever wants to run again. His friend was half a second away from beating his record. Maybe if he waits long enough, he will.

And she learns that he loves to sing. And he learns that she does to.

"Maybe we could, you know, sing sometime," he says offhandedly.

She turns to him with lopsided eyebrows and face turned into a smirk.

"I have a feeling you're a little too 'boy band' for me."

* * *

The first few weeks are horrible. The cold claws of withdrawal scratch at him ceaselessly, and therapy is simply torture, like being locked in a room with wild dogs. The therapists prod him all day, always asking him the same questions. He doesn't know how this could possibly be helping.

He can only tolerate one therapist: a sixty year old man with salt and pepper hair and kind, twinkling eyes. Dr. Foley doesn't poke like the others. He chats and tells jokes, and at some point along the way, you find yourself laying your heart on the table.

"Have you had any urges to drink recently, Shane?" asks Dr. Foley.

Shane almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the question, returning the old man's inquiry with a crooked smirk.

The doctor smiles slightly, before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, of course you have. And that is perfectly normal for the first few weeks. It's not going to be a quick process. I'll ask you the same question in a month.

"In the meantime, I'd like you to continue to engage in therapy, and I'd like you to talk to the other kids."

Shane nods and turns to leave.

"Wait," says Dr. Foley, "I notice that you've made friends with Mitchie Torres."

Shane nods again, adopting a questioning look as he does.

"Yeah, we talk sometimes."

The doctor smiles.

"Good. That's good. She needs someone."

* * *

He and Mitchie continued to talk. He enjoyed her company, and he imagined that she felt the same.

"What's that kids problem?" he had questioned one day, pointing to a wiry twelve-year old that crouched in the cafeteria corner.

Mitchie glanced up from her untouched food to see who he was pointing to.

"Oh, that's Michael. I think he's an orphan. Lived with his uncle until the poor kid accidentally burned down the house. They say he's a pyromaniac."

She looked at the boy again.

"I think he's just sad."

* * *

They had heard sirens that night. Shane peeked out of his room to see emergency medics rushing a rolling bed quickly through the hall, a limp hand hanging over the side.

The next morning, Dr. Foley announced that Michael had taken his life.

_Another man down_, Shane had thought.

He glanced up to see Mitchie with her head in her hands, wet splatters dropping to the floor below her.

* * *

"He just wanted to go home," she had said that night.

Shane shook his head and mumbled,

"I want that more than anything."

But Mitchie remained silent.

* * *

Author Note:

Any comments/critiques are very much appreciated! Unfortunately, music will not be an overarching theme in this particular story, because this was originally written with different characters, and additionally, the characters may be a bit AU. I will add another chapter in the next day or so.

Thanks:)


	2. Chapter 2

I'm A Lightweight

"Where do they go?" He asks one day.

She looks up from her book, her eyes searching his face.

"What?"

"The geese. They always fly away, and I've never known where they go."

He can't help but wish he could fly away with them.

"Coney Island," she says, "I bet they heard about the new condos that allow poultry."

He laughs and leans against the tree behind him.

* * *

Her laugh becomes something like a drug to him. So warm and musical, and utterly contagious. The way she swings her head back and closes her eyes, letting her smooth brown hair stream down her back. And the more time he spends with her, the less he feels like drinking. It's amazing, really. The way she makes him complete, filling the gaping hole that booze used to fill. He can't help but wonder what she feels about him. Maybe he'll never know.

"How's therapy going?" She had asked.

"Fine." He replied, "Better."

He turns to face her.

"What about you?"

She shifts her eyes away from him and takes a breath.

"Fine," she says flatly.

He knows she's lying. He had heard Dr. Foley speaking with one of the nurses yesterday. They said she had fished another razor out of the trash.

It's amazing what you can hide behind a smile.

* * *

The first time he sees her parents, he starts to understand why she hates anything to do with positive family dynamics. Like when she put her foot through the tv when he was watching _The Waltons_, or why he found a ripped copy of _Little Women_ outside of her room.

"Why did you destroy the book?" He had questioned the next morning, over a breakfast of cold eggs and grey sausage.

"It's too predictable." She quipped, swirling her fork in the overcooked eggs.

"I think it's fairly unpredictable," he had pushed.

She raised her eyes from her food to give him a soft, yet calculating look.

"Prediction only comes with disassociation."

He understood, but disagreed. His home life wasn't perfect either.

* * *

He watched the family's interaction from the hallway. It was the first time they had visited her since she had been admitted. A year is a long time to be alone. He knows that the long-sleeved sweater is no accident. She grips the cuffs between her fingers, determined to keep the white bandages that cover her wrists from showing.

Her father is dressed in a suit, his brief case sitting at his feet while he sits stiffly on the far side of the couch. Her mother is the polar opposite. She hugs her daughter every few seconds, blubbering like an emotional walrus, her blood-red lipstick leaving smear marks on Mitchie's cheeks.

The whole time, Mitchie looks at her shoes, unwilling to listen to any of their pleas. They don't understand. They are all fighting something that can't be beaten. It isn't physical, it can't be strangled or stamped out, and it always comes back. No matter how many pills you take.

* * *

He's starting to feel the familiar tug of addiction for the first time in two weeks. His head is fuzzy, eyesight disoriented, and the shapes that blur around him make him feel like he's about the throw up. Colors and faces whiz around him, almost as if he's stuck in a kaleidoscope. He feels his shoulder connect with something hard, and before he knows it, he's sprawled out on the floor. He blinks feverishly, trying to clear his vision so that he can see where he is.

But before his eyes can adjust, music drifts into his ears. It's sweet and beautiful, hanging in the air, almost too angelic to touch the ground. He doesn't know who's sitting at the piano, but the hands that dance across the keys are not those of an amateur. He blinks again, and he starts to make out his surroundings. He confirms that he's in the music therapy room. His eyes rest on the figure sitting on the bench, and he can't help but smile.

_Mitchie_.

She's never looked more beautiful to him.

Her hair is pulled into a loose braid, leaving her dark-featured face exposed. She doesn't even look down as she plays, her eyes locked on something far beyond the therapy room. Perhaps, even beyond the window that seems to hold her attention.

He's about to call her name, but doesn't quite get the chance.

"The slightest words you said,

Have all gone to my head.

I hear angels sing,

In your voice."

Her voice is soft and smooth. It fills the air and resonates in every corner. He feels as if the music is caressing him, bringing life to his hurting soul, and clearing his foggy mind. When she sings, she has so much emotion, so much _life_. Mitchie is so dead on the exterior, yet Shane has discovered the tunnel that leads to her beating heart: it winds and curves with every note that escapes her lips.

"When you pull me close,

Feelings I've never known.

You mean everything,

And leave me no choice."

Tears are falling from her eyes now. They roll down her cheeks and splash the ivory keys.

He's so utterly captivated, so utterly in _love, that _he almost forgets where they are, and what they've been through. And for a moment, it's as if he's an average boy, and she's an average girl, and he's just seen her for the very first time. And the only reason he's lying on the floor in a cold-sweat, is because he's gathering the courage to walk up and talk to her.

_"Excuse me, Miss? Can I have this dance?"_

Oh, how perfect it would all be.

* * *

"What am I to you?" He had asked while they were walking to one of the weekly group sessions. His palms were sweaty from anticipation, his eyes shifted nervously from the ceiling to the floor. He knows that he's taken her by surprise. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look away. She's used to answering his questions, and he lives to hear her answers.

Her brows knit together for a moment, and he knows he's challenged her agile mind. If he weren't so anxious, he might feel accomplished.

"Well," she begins, "I don't think I can come up with a single word, honestly. But, with you I feel like it's okay to dream about a time beyond this sanitized prison."

He can't describe exactly what he felt in that moment, but he knows that she's said so much with so little.

He sits in bed that night and thinks. He ponders over Mitchie and himself, and can't help but chuckle when the old cliche comes into his mind:

"We may not have it all together, but together, we have it all."

Yes, he was head over heels for Mitchie Torres.

* * *

"Show me," he says.

He had noticed the anxiety in her voice the night before, and he knows exactly why she went to bed early.

Her ocean-deep eyes look into his, searching his face, before they are snapped firmly shut. They remain closed when she pulls up her sleeve and turns her wrist to him. They are still closed when she feels his lips brush against her angry cuts, and when his hot breath warms her icy hands. He pulls down her sleeve gently, before placing his arms around her.

"I love you," he whispers. It's the first time he's said it, but not the first time he's thought it. And he can feel her grip around him tighten with every breath.

_Cause baby, running after you is liking chasing the clouds._

* * *

Hey,_  
_

I hope you enjoy the ned chapter:) Any comments/critiques are gladly appreciated!

Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm A Lightweight

He never really understood how broken Mitchie was until about three months into rehab. He knew she had problems, and a lot of them at that. He knew that she had been hospitalized twice for anorexia. He knew that angry red lines littered her thin arms and legs: her way of finding relief in a world that offered her none. And, finally, he knew that she was emotionally detached, unable to "talk about her feelings" to anyone. He used to blame her parents for that one.

But what he didn't know was that Mitchie Torres had been ripped apart and taped together more times than was humanly possible. Fear pumped through her veins, and anger kept her alive. Her's was a transparent soul, hidden by a beautiful face and snarky comments.

* * *

It all happened because of that stupid drug addict. The one who used to assault ten year old girls, and who, at only sixteen, had graced the page of "Minnesota's Most Wanted" for five months straight. He was at Blue Ridge to "change his ways".

The idiot boy had tried to kiss her. No, he had tried to do more than that. Shane had walked in just as a muffled scream escaped her lips. Rage had blinded him in that moment. He ran, hurling the other kid to the floor and knocking him out with an angry fist.

He had turned around to find her sobbing in a crumpled heap, dark mascara lines streaking her face and her body shaking with tremors. He went to reach for her, murmuring as he did,

"It's alright, I'm here. You're safe Mitch, he can't hurt you."

She flinched when his fingers made contact, terrified eyes peeking out from behind her arms.

"It's okay," he whispered as he slowly drew her closer to him. She cried until there was nothing left, until the front of his sweatshirt clung to him with the weight of her salty tears.

"So...w-weak," she had stuttered between sobs, "I'm such a coward."

He hadn't known what to say. He felt helpless and guilty, and all he wanted was to be able to strip her pain away.

"People don't cry because they are weak," he had quoted, "but because they've been strong for far too long."

He lowered his head to rest against hers.

They stayed like that for hours, only untangling themselves when a nurse walked in and shooed them off to their rooms, pretending that she didn't see Mitchie's red, puffy eyes or Shane's bloody knuckles.

* * *

Dr. Foley told him everything the next day. About how Mitchie had been a victim of abuse since the age of five. About how her brother used to beat her when they were alone, and how her uncle would drag her into his bedroom and do unspeakable things.

"When Mitchie first came to Blue Ridge," the doctor had said, "she was so traumatized that she would scream if someone touched her. And individual therapy sessions were out of the question. If she was left alone in a room with someone, she would try to break through the window. Anything to get away."

He had told Shane about the incident that continued to haunt her. The one where her brother had left her to die on the side of the road, with a cracked skull, four broken ribs, and stab wounds that bled for hours into the ground.

"Her parents aren't abusive. No, definitely not, but her father is above all a business man, whose heart seems to be as cold as the steel briefcase that hangs by his side. And her mother is a recovering alcoholic, whose ability to relate with others was drowned out a long time ago."

"Why...why are you telling me all this?" Shane had inquired with a choked voice.

Dr. Foley gave a sad smile.

"Son, I know you care about her. Probably more than anyone ever has. And I want to look up one day and see her walking out of those sliding-glass doors. For good. And maybe with you here, she will. Goodness knows, no one else has been able to do that."

Hot tears dripped down Shane's cheeks.

* * *

They were sitting in the lounge one morning. Mitchie was engrossed in a book that lay across her lap, and Shane couldn't help but laugh silently at the expression she had on her face. She was absolutely fascinated. Her mouth hung open, her foot tapped feverishly, and her eyes darted across the page. However, as entertaining as it was to watch Mitchie read a book, Shane was rather bored.

"Hey, Mitch?" He asked softly.

Her eyes didn't leave the page, and all she offered in response was a mumbled "Yeah?".

Shane rolled his eyes.

"I'm bored. Do you wanna go to the music room? Maybe have some fun?"

She slowly pulled herself away from her book and turned to look at him.

"Ummm, sure. Why not."

* * *

They sat side by side on the piano bench. Mitchie looked amusedly at Shane as he ran his hands over the keys.

"What do you want to do?" She questioned.

Shane looked at her with eyes twinkling.

"I think that I would like to sing a duet with the marvelous Mitchie Torres." He winked, giving her a gentle nudge.

It was her turn to roll her eyes this time.

"Whatever. What song?"

He looked up at the ceiling as he pondered her question.

"What about 'Make A Wave'? It has a nice melody, and a good range."

She nodded her head.

"Alright, sure."

And with that, Shane began to slowly play. His brows furrowed as his fingers danced over the ebony and ivories. Mitchie was captivated by him. She couldn't tear her eyed away.

"They say the beat of a butterflies wings,  
Can set off a storm the world away."

His voice was smooth as silk. She couldn't help but smile.

"What if they're right and the smallest of things  
Can power the strongest hurricane?"

She smiled brighter with each note, eyes growing brighter by the second. Shane shook his head, how could someone so talented, be so broken?

"What if it all begins inside?" He sang.

"We hold the key that turns the tide."

His hands jumped to a greater pace as he started the bridge. They both leaned in and sang with fervor.

"Just a pebble in the water

Can set the sea in motion

A simple act of kindness

Can stir the widest ocean

If we show a little love

Heaven knows what we could change

So throw a pebble in the water

And make a wave, make a wave

Make a wave, make a wave"

Their voices hung in the air for what seemed like a lifetime. It was a perfect blend of silky tenor and soulful soprano, a perfect combination of a troubled boy and a less-than perfect girl.

But nothing sounded more beautiful.

* * *

"Will you marry me when we get out?"

It had taken him weeks to work up the courage to ask that. Maybe it was a stupid question, he isn't sure, but he had to take a chance. They may only be seventeen, but who knows how long they'll be running on this hamster wheel called _life_.

"Yes."

There's no emotion. No fluctuation of volume. No smile. No frown. Just a simple matter of fact answer, and she doesn't even look up from her book when she says it.

But for the first time he's sure she's spoken the truth. He's sure that he's just been given one of the few authentic yes' in a world of no's.

* * *

It had been nearly six months since he first laid eyes on the Blue Ridge Rehabilitation Center. He feels good. Really good. The pain of his best friend's loss is still very much present, but he doubt it will ever truly go away. Maybe he doesn't want it to.

Dr. Foley tells him that he can be discharged next week if he likes. At first, Shane is ecstatic and the thought of sleeping in his own bed, eating non-cafeteria food, and seeing his friends again, is overwhelming. He's been waiting for this for half a year.

But he doesn't feel quite as happy as he could. Doesn't feel excitement coursing through his veins like he knows it should. And then he realizes why.

Mitchie.

He would be going home, and she? She would be staying. How could he do that to her? How could he do that to them? She is the reason that he has finally put away his addiction and moved forward. She is the reason that he wakes up every morning with a smile on his face. And he's the reason that she smiles at all.

He laid awake that night, unable to sleep. His mine buzzed and hummed as anxiety filled him.

What was he going to do?

* * *

"Dr. Foley told me I can leave." He tells her the next day, "Next week, if I like."

She looks up at him with a shocked expression, her face breaking into a smile. But he knows it's fake. She's trying to be happy for him, he knows it, but her eyes are dead. He can almost hear the sickening sound of her heart cracking.

"Good," she says, "that's so great."

But her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

* * *

**Hey,**

**thanks for reading:) I always love to hear any comments/critiques that you all may have!**

**Thanks.**


	4. Chapter 4

I'm A Lightweight

Saying goodbye to her is hard, but he promises to visit. Promises to bring her lunch every day, and take her out on weekends. And when his dad's old truck pulls out of Blue Ridge, Shane doesn't even cry, because he knows they'll see each other very soon.

"Dr. Foley told me that you've gotten close to a girl here, Shane," he hears his father say from the front seat.

"What's her name?"

Shane takes a deep breath, his lips curving into a deep smile.

"Mitchie. Mitchie Torres."

"What's she like?"

The boy laughs a bit.

"She's...perfect."

His father gives him a crooked grin.

"Sounds like someone's in love," he teases.

Shane stares out the window, eyes dancing.

_You have no idea._

* * *

He does what he promised, and they talk everyday, either in person or by phone. She makes him tell her about his school day, his friends, the news, everything. They talk for hours, just basking in each other's warmth.

* * *

Three weeks later, he gets a call from her.

"Shane," comes her excited voice, "They say I can go. Dr. Foley said I can leave in a few weeks."

He feels so blissfully happy, like a kid who's stolen a candy bar and gotten away with it. He throws his head back and closes his eyes.

"That's great. So, so great. I'm coming over tomorrow, and we can celebrate then. I love you," he says.

And for the first time, she replies with, "I love you too."

* * *

They are sitting in the open field behind Blue Ridge. She's lying on the warm grass, her chocolate hair fanned around her. He's looking at the sky. It's a deep, heavenly blue today.

"So, you're really doing well, Mitch?" he says with a glance in her direction. He studies her. She looks so much better. So healthy and happy.

She turns her head to look at him.

"Yes," she says, "I promise. I feel so...alive."

He scoots closer to her and smiles, leaning down to steal a kiss as she grins up at him.

* * *

"Remember when you asked me to marry you?" Mitchie asks.

They are sitting in the hospital lounge. One more week until she can leave.

Shane smiles sheepishly.

"I may have been under the influence at the time, you know." He jokes.

But she isn't joking. And when he sees the seriousness on her face, his smile drops.

"Yeah," he says softly, "Yeah, I do. And, I meant it."

She looks so deep into his eyes that he's sure she can see the blood pumping rapidly to his heart.

"And I said yes," she replies, "You could ask me a million times, and I'll always say yes."

They're only eighteen, but sometimes he feels as though their souls are older than Adam and Eve.

* * *

_"With you I feel like it's okay to dream about a time beyond this sanitized prison."_

Her words are always in his mind. And he can't help but cry happy tears, because she is. She is getting out. Nearly two years of being locked up in a looney-bin, and she's finally getting out.

* * *

But he remembers the call he got that rainy November night. The way the shakey voice on the other line wavered in and out as thunder claps boomed in the distance.

"Mr. Gray," said a feminine voice, "This is nurse Sarah from Blue Ridge."

There was a pause, then a gulp accompanied by a stuttering cough.

"Are your parents there, Shane?"

He furrowed his brows, face etched with confusion.

"No. I'm here by myself."

The woman sighed.

"Could you please come to the center when your parents get back?"

Shane mumbled a "yes" before ending the call.

Pangs of electricity shot up his spine.

* * *

He entered the center that night, his parents at his heels. The nurses led him to Dr. Foley's office and shut the door behind him. The doctor sat at his desk with a blank expression. His eyes searched Shane's face before gesturing for the boy to take a seat.

They sat in silence until the older man suddenly cleared his throat.

"Shane, I have some bad news. Some..."

"Just say it," Shane interjected. He looked at the doctor with narrowed eyes,

"Just say it. I'm tired of all the tip-toeing."

Dr. Foley gave a nod.

"I'm afraid Mitchie's in the hospital," he said firmly,

"They don't think she'll last the night."

_There's a shadow on the bridge,_

_A rustle in the dark._

_A foot upon the rail,_

_The match that lit the spark._

_A once sturdy grip that now let's go._

_A hopeful hand that was too slow._

_One heart lies clenching with defeat,_

_Another sinks, some twenty feet._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks for reading:) Sorry to leave you on sad note. I'll try to update soon!**

**Please comment/critique!**

**Thanks.**


	5. Chapter 5

I'm A Lightweight

"I'm so cold," he had heard her say.

Shane looked strangely at her. The sun was beating down on them. It was nearly eighty degrees, and she was cold?

She had been reading a book, and when she looked up, her face was pale, eyes glassy. He moved closer and rested a hand on her forehead.

"What do you mean? Do you feel sick?"

She looked away from him.

"No," she whispered. "I just feel so cold. I feel nothing. I feel dead. I'm tired of being numb."

A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the grass below.

He hadn't known her very well at that point. He'd only been there four weeks.

"Don't they understand?" she rasped. "Don't they get that that's why I do it? To feel something?"

Her shoulders started to shake, and all he could do was slowly pull her towards him and wrap his arms around her.

_I'm a lightweight,_

_Better be careful what you say,_

_With every word I'm blown away,_

_You're in control of my heart._

_I'm a lightweight,_

_Easy to fall, easy to break,_

_With every move my whole world shakes,_

_Keep me from falling apart._

* * *

He hates hospitals. He's always hated them. They remind him of his mother's cancer and his best friend's death. The constant beeping always breaks him into a cold sweat.

When he's sees her wants to throw up. She's pale, her face almost a gray color. He looks at the bags of blood and fluids and the heart monitor that sounds a wavering beat.

He reaches for her left arm, the one with the tight bandage covering the wrist.

"They found her in the bathroom this morning," Dr. Foley says from behind him.

"She was doing so well...I-I don't know what triggered it," the older man whispers.

Shane closes his eyes and takes in a quivering breath.

"But she's going to be okay, right?" he questions. He looks at the doctor's face with pleading eyes.

"She's lived through worse. She can do it. I know she..."

A sob escapes his lungs, and he sinks to the floor, still gripping her hand.

"She severed the artery, son. I don't think they'll be able to..."

"So what?" Shane shouts, "They're not going to do anything? They're just going to leave her to die?"

Dr. Foley grabs the boy, placing his strong arms around him and squeezing tightly.

"Shhh, son. No. They are going to do everything they can."

"I just want to talk to her," Shane cries, "I just want to hear her voice."

* * *

He's jolted out of his fitful slumber in the middle of the night.

There's a rush of doctors and shouts and beeps, and his vision is so blurry that he can't understand what's happening. He pushes himself off the floor just outside Mitchie's door, and rubs his eyes. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find Dr. Foley standing there.

The look on the old man's face makes Shane's stomach drop.

He feels his head crack against the door knob behind him, and everything goes black.

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, he's in his own bed. And as he reaches his hands up to find the bandage wrapped around his head, the memories rush back to him. A heart-wrenching sob escapes his lungs and he begins to beat his fists against his skull.

If only he had died in that car wreck.

* * *

He doesn't go to the funeral. He knows he should, but he can't force himself to put on another front. Everywhere he looks, he sees her. Her chocolate eyes that held so much pain, her wide smile that acted as a shield, her dimples that made him want to laugh for an eternity.

Her father had asked him to give a speech. Maybe the old man finally realized that Shane was the only one who knew anything about her. But Shane can't do it. They were more than friends, more than lovers even. What they were can't be described in conventional terms. Nothing in the dictionary can encapsulate what they were to each other.

He still calls her every night: so sure that she's just a phone call away. That he can always, always hear her voice if he just dials that number.

"Hey, this is Mitchie. I'm so sorry that I missed your call. Please leave a message after the beep, and I will get back to you as soon as possible."

"_Always_," he whispers. And fifty-two messages later, he's still calling.

* * *

There are murmurs at school. Constant gossiping voices that follow him everywhere. They all echo one word: _Suicide_.

He clenches his fists every time he hears it.

"Murder," he mumbles, "It was murder."

Eventually, he just stops going to school.

* * *

He's jogging through the park one morning, the park that's only a block away from Blue Ridge. He has taken up running again, but it's more for escaping than enjoyment. He stops for a minute and rests against a tree.

It's been almost five weeks since that night at the hospital. Five weeks since he saw Mitchie's face and caressed her hand. Five weeks since he smiled last. But he's stayed sober, hasn't even looked at a bottle since he left Blue Ridge.

Crying has become part of the daily routine.

Sometimes he feels so dead he wonders if he's alive, and other times he feels so alive, he wishes he were dead.

_Light on my heart, Light on my feet._

_Light in your eyes, I can't even speak._

_Do you even know, How you make me weak?_

* * *

**This story is definitely not finished, so please stay with me. Sorry for being so tragic….**

**Please comment/critique!**


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